Kisses, Skulls and Warcraft
by WithinHerHeart
Summary: My answer to the SherlockxJohn prompt 'Five Times Sherlock pulled John's head back to give him a kiss, and one time John kissed him' on Livejournal's sherlockbbc fic. Was temporarily on hiatus, but now hopefully continued. A mix of genres.
1. Punctuality Problems

_Crack._

John Watson gave a low groan, and rolled onto his side. He threw a arm over his eyes in a weak attempt to shield his face from the light sunlight pouring into the room.

_Crack._

He murmured incoherently to himself, the sounds muffled by his arm. He was always quite slow and irritable in the morning- of course, his experience as a army doctor helped speeding his bad reaction time, but it was still fairly difficult to immediately wake him.

_Crack._

The male's eyes flickered open, and he inched his arm away from his face, being careful not to expose his eyes to the warm sunlight to fast. He sat up in bed, wincing slightly, and noticing the absence of his lover. He was positive Sherlock was with him the previous night. As he surveyed the room, he noted that he abandoned clothing littering the floor was pretty concrete evidence to that fact.

_Crack._

A frown appeared on John's face, and his tired face turned to stare in the direction the loud sound had came from. The door which lead to the living room was slightly ajar, allowing him to see the occasional flicker of movement.

_Crack._

And with that sharp, violent sound, everything fell into place in the doctor's mind.

"Oh, God." He groaned to himself. "Sherlock." He kicked the duvet cover which had pooled at his waist off as fast as he could, and swung his legs off of the bed. After a brief hunt for his boxers among various pieces of clothing, he pulled them on and burst into the living room.

Sherlock instantly looked up, distracted and intrigued by John's loud entrance. Interested, he cocked his head to the left as the riding crop in his hands stilled. As the shorter man stared at him in complete bewilderment, Sherlock gave him a boyish smile in greeting.

"Good morning, John." His voice was amused, with a teasing note. The subject of his experiment and abuse sat forgotten. By Sherlock, at least. John was staring at the severed human foot with a barely veiled horror. For several seconds he stared, remaining silent.

"What are you….?" At a loss for words, the remains of his sentence died in his mouth. Sherlock turned back to the body part, frowning down at it.

"I am conducting a repeat experiment for a case. The one from Saturday."

"Oh. I see." Still fairly shaken, he shook his head, needing to find a chair to sit in. He settled for the sofa. "It's quite ridiculous. I should be used to finding weird body parts all over that place or seeing you whip the hell out of them." Sherlock gave a quick smile, before the look of concentration reappeared as he studied the body part. "Well, good morning anyway." Reaching up to rub at his eyes, he made his way past his contemplative lover and into the kitchen. He headed straight for the refrigerator, hoping and praying to anyone who was listening that they had something edible.

Thankfully, there were no severed heads inside, just delightful food. For once, they _actually had food. _John fervently pulled a loaf of bread out of the fridge. As he turned to dump it on the counter, he noticed Sherlock sidling into the kitchen quietly. Used to him milling around the flat like a wraith, John simply ignored him. But absentmindedly, he looked up at the clock in the corner of the room, and he stilled in complete horror. Sherlock noticed this immediately, but his expression remained blank.

"_I'm guessing you've seen the time, then." He commented dryly. John turned to stare at him, mouth agape. "Don't fret. I'm sure Sarah won't mind you being a little late." A note of distaste and venom entered his voice at the mention of his partner's boss._

"_Won't mind?" John suddenly began to fast forward, turning around to almost fling the loaf of bread back inside, his breakfast be damned. "Sherlock, I'm so unbelievably late…you usually wake me up with your bloody antics!" The frantic man fled back through the man room and back inside his bedroom. Sherlock silently followed. _

"_I was trying to be quiet." He explained as John slammed the door in his face. Unruffled and undeterred, he continued as John leapt over the messes in his room, and begun dragging clothes out of his wardrobe. "We've had a busy few weeks, and you were practically dead last night." The doctor may have been imagining the hint of pride in his voice. "I didn't wish to disturb you."_

_John quickly re-emerged from the bedroom, with his shirt only half done up and a pair of smart pants on. He shoved past Sherlock as he did up his shirt, lamenting the fact that his lover chose today of all days to be considerate and silent._

"_Next time, wake me up!" John insisted, just about dragging his coat on. Just as he was about to open the door and dart out, Sherlock spoke up._

"_John."_

"_What now?" _

"_Shower? Phone? Keys?" Sherlock looked down at John's feet. "Socks? Shoes?"_

_John paused, one foot out of the door. Groaning, with a light flush on his cheeks he turned and walked straight back inside, slamming the door. He headed towards the bathroom, shedding layers and dropping clothes on the floor as he went. He ran inside, still wearing his pants and shut the door tight behind him. Then he decided to lock it, just in case Sherlock got any ideas._

_The consultant detective stared after him, his expression almost completely blank and plain. He was listening intently, stopping just short of pressing his ear up against the bathroom door. He could hear John frantically jumping about in there, and not half a minute later he heard the shower turn on._

_Quietly, the man turned away to recline in his favoured armchair. Absentmindedly, he reached over for his Stradivarius. After about ten minutes of plucking the stings experimentally with his long fingers, he abruptly placed it to once side, and sat up. As the shower was shut off, he gathered up John's coat and shirt and waited outside the bathroom door. He wasn't made to wait too long- soon, the door was unlocked and opened up, and Sherlock was disappointed to discover he was wearing the work trousers. All of his planning was for nothing._

_John stepped through, almost walking into his partner. His eyes flickered up to the detective's before falling onto the bundle of clothes in his arms._

"_Oh. Thank you." He gave a small smile, accepting the clothes. He pulled the shirt on, quickly buttoning it up before accepting his coat. He dashed off into the bedroom, leaving Sherlock behind. He spent the next ten minutes stalking his lover around the flat almost sullenly, staring at him nearly reproachfully as he pulled on his socks and shoes. John ignored the stares, shaking his head as he grabbed everything else he needed for his day. "See you later, then." John moved to dash out of the door once again._

_He was stopped by a pair of thin, but strong arms wrapping around him, and pulling him back into a warm chest. He heard Sherlock chuckle quietly into his ear as he pulled him back into the room. John tried to squirm and wriggle out of his grasp, but he was rendered immobile by the detective._

"_Sherlock, get off. I'm late enough already." He protested, but he was not released. Sherlock gently reached up and grasped the smaller man's chin, tugging it backwards until his mouth was accessible._

"_Wait." He purred. He tilted his head to the left, smiling down at his victim. He brought their mouths together softly, giving his doctor a affectionate, but quick kiss. John made a muffled, irritated sound against Sherlock's lips. Still grinning, he ended the kiss and lightly pushed the man out of the door and into the hallway. "We'll continue this later." The taller man told the doctor shortly, before shutting the door in his face._

_John stared at the door for a moment, thinking about how both Sherlock and Sarah would react if he took a day off work, or was very, very late…but he went against it, deciding that they needed the money for the rent and food. He shook his head at the door, as if Sherlock could see him through it, and walked away._

_Once outside, he hailed a cab, grinning to himself._

_Not such a bad start to the day at all._


	2. The Best Intentions

"Oh, John, John!"

Taking the last few steps down the staircase and heading towards the door, John hesitated as his name was called. He looked up from his phone to see Mrs Hudson scurrying out of her door towards him, clutching a small handbag to her. "Please wait, dear."

John smiled in greeting as his landlady caught up to him. "Good morning, Mrs Hudson."

"Good morning." She returned the smile, before looking away and delving into her bag quickly. "I wanted to have a word with you about something…." Her sentence died as she continued her search. John pulled a face.

"Is this about all the yelling last night?" He asked, frowning. "I'm sorry about that, it's just sometimes Sherlock-"His tone turned agitated, his frustration clear, but his landlady hushed him comfortingly, still smiling.

"That's alright dear, I know how he gets. As long as it doesn't happen to often." She looked back into her bag. "I want to talk to you about Mrs Turner."

"Mrs Turner?" John frowned in confusion. He and Sherlock had met her before- a woman who was very close friends with their landlady. She was sarcastic and prideful, a complete contrast to the sweet and caring Mrs Hudson. Marie Turner did not approve of Sherlock , and he didn't like her too much either, but she seemed to accept the ex army doctor. "Was wrong? Is she alright?"

"She's fine," The lady pulled out a photograph, grinning brightly all of a sudden. "But I want to talk to you about her new tenant."

John recoiled in surprise as the woman eagerly thrust the photo into his face, smiling. "This is her, look." She gushed, gesturing at it. "Mrs Turner took it from the girl's flat. Isn't she gorgeous?"

Hoping that the aged woman next door had taken the picture with permission, John looked. The female in the photo was indeed beautiful, and youthful, with tanned and flawless skin. Brown curls fell past her shoulders and into her sapphire eyes. Her smile was open and friendly as she posed with a small group of women, all young and attractive. Quickly clearing his throat and forcibly tearing his gaze away, John looked up at Mrs Hudson.

"Er, who is this….?" The woman beamed at him.

"Her name's Melissa Driscoll. She just moved into Mrs Turner's next door."

"….And?" The doctor pressed for more information uncertainly.

"Well, she's new to London you see." The woman gave him a familiar, wide eyed look, her eyebrows raised. John simply stated at her. "She doesn't have many friends here….and apparently she's single." Mrs Hudson made sure to stress the word single, still holding up the photo.

Suddenly understanding, John's lips twitched as he withheld the urge to laugh aloud. She was trying to hook him up. With some girl.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, apparently her last boyfriend broke up with her a few months ago. I can't understand why, really. I've met her and she's perfectly nice, and very friendly." Mrs Hudson spoke emphatically, nodding to herself. "I was thinking, maybe you could show her around…"

"John!" A new, familiar voice interjected. The two jumped slightly in surprise, turning to stare down the hallway at the speaker.

Sherlock stood at the door, frowning down at the two. He looked distinctly irritated at them as he stalked down the hallway to stand next to them. "John, you were supposed to meet me outside in the taxi."

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson wanted to ask me a question." The male was openly smiling now, chuckling quietly. "She wanted to ask if I would go out on a date with a woman who just moved next door." Mrs Hudson nodded, about to speak, but her joyful smile fell as Sherlock's frown immediately deepened into a dark scowl.

"How….considerate of her." He spoke through clenched teeth, his silver eyes raging. "But I'm sure John already had a girlfriend. Perhaps Sarah, or Sergeant Donovan." Mrs Hudson sported a look of surprise and shock, staring at the furious man whilst cowering behind her handbag. Sherlock was glaring down at her, being openly threatening and hostile. John shook his head, feeling sorry for the woman, and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Come on. We should grab that taxi while it's still there." He coaxed. "Mrs Hudson, I'll talk to you about Melissa later." He said, before turning and gently pulling Sherlock away.

"Oh, her name's Melissa, is it?" He snarled, looking over his shoulder to give his landlady a fierce glare. John tugged him down the hallway, shouting his goodbye.

When they got to the door, he suddenly felt a arm on his own, and was yanked back into Sherlock's chest. The consultant detective tugged his head back and pressed a hard, angry kiss to his mouth. He bit down on the doctors lower lip violently, delighting in the low moan the shorter man gave. He encircled his arms around his partners waist, pulling him closer before ripping his lips away. Sherlock immediately began to nuzzle and bite at his unprotected neck. John almost purred at the sensation, tilting his head to the side to offer better access.

At the top of the hallway, Mrs Hudson quietly crept down and past the couple, not wanting to distract them. Grinning, she tiptoed back into her room, slowly and silently closing the door behind her.

"Ah, they think I'm ignorant, but little do they know…" She chuckled to herself, pleased with her victory. She crossed the room, heading towards her glass coffee table in the centre of the room, and picked up a empty photo frame. Turning it around, she undid the clasps and lifted the back off, before carefully replacing the photo of her niece and her friends inside it. Closing it again, she placed it back on the table, smiling to herself victoriously.

_No-one ever suspects the old ladies._


	3. Placebo

As John stood in the middle of his shared flat, his fists clenched and his entire body shaking in fury, he wished he had his sister's luck.

Before her weak will caused her once innocent drinking habits to spiral out of control, Harry had it all. She was intelligent and beautiful, with a great, well paid job. She was full of life- generous and sweet, but energetic and fierce. She had a kind wife, who was nothing short of devoted and caring. She had all of these things, whilst John was all alone. This was one of the reasons why he refused to turn to Harry for help. He knew he wouldn't have been able to handle seeing the woman who once had everything, had the perfect life, but screwed it up so badly. John would have killed for the one he loved - _he privately thought it was terribly ironic that he fell in love with Sherlock Holmes. Technically, now, he ha already taken a life for his love- _and Harriet had caved into her addiction and lost her Clara.

So while John stared into Sherlock's cold, liquid steel eyes, he wished that he had his sisters good fortune, but not her weak will. He wanted to meet the one he loved, and who loved him properly in return now. Before Sherlock destroyed him.

"How dare you?" John demanded, his voice dangerously low. Sherlock simply stared in response, his Stradivarius at his throat and the violin bow held loosely in one limp hand. He sat on the settee, his legs crossed, watching the furious military man with a hint of curiosity. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

Sherlock remained silent, but he begun tapping the bow against the settee as if bored, and willing him to hurry and finish the lecture. John bristled.

"You're not even listening, are you?" The army doctor raged, his teeth clenched. "You don't even care abo-" He violently shook his head. "All you care about are your stupid cases, everything else be damned. Like you said, if you don't have the work, your brain will rot. To hell with friends and family who actually care about you."

Sherlock exhaled heavily, his entire face completely blank. In one swift movement, his violin was lying on the table alongside it's how, and Sherlock was up, towering over the doctor.

"Friends and family cannot keep me entertained." His mouth turned up into a sneer. "And people are so stupid. They just don't think."

"So you don't care about what happens to innocent members of the public as long as you get your end result?"

"Oh, Doctor John Watson, bleeding heart." Sherlock taunted, crossing his long arms against his thin chest. "Always worrying about other people's well being, always striving to help others. How sweet."

Unintimidated by his height, John glowered up at the consultant detective. "I'm not a bleeding heart. Caring for people is my job."

"Was your job." He corrected, sighing in impatience. "It isn't anymore."

"Then what do you call me job now?" John replied defensively.

"Trivial. I can tell that it bores you silly, and the only reason you're still doing it is for the money. I know that most people who go to you aren't even ill. Most of the time, you try the placebo effect on them. And it works, doesn't it? Almost every time." Sherlock flashed him a self satisfied, smug smile, and John withheld the urge to scream at him like a child.

"You," he hissed, "are insufferable. You're so damn smug in your bloody intelligence." The urge to punch the detective grew along with the older man's smile. "You're so convinced you're right."

"But I am, aren't I?" Sherlock pressed, insistent on his victory. "You know I am."

John near trembled with the effort to keep calm, but he allowed himself on bitter thin lipped smile. He wished one more time, with all of his heart, for his sisters luck. "Yeah." He said. "You're right."

He pivoted, meaning to make his retreat and spend the rest of the night wandering the silent streets of London in the chill, but Sherlock violently grabbed his upper arm and held on tight. John turned back, scowling.

"Let me go." He ordered, his tone low and icy cold. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and his grip tightened.

"You're not going anywhere."

"Let me go." John repeated, snarling, and tugged his arm out of Sherlock's hold. "Don't touch me." He turned, and stalked towards the front door, ignoring his coat- but he found himself being snatched up, and slammed against the wall. Before he could protest he felt Sherlock's hands expertly pinning his wrists to the wall, and his lips were preoccupied with his flatmates. He was pressed into the wall hard, and the grip on his wrists was uncomfortable, borderline painful, but John ignored the pain and concentrated solely on the kiss. It was strong, hard and domineering. Not totally unlike Sherlock, but there seemed to be a restrained anger or irritation fuelling it. Soon, a bit too soon for John's liking, the kiss ended, and the detective growled into the doctor's ear, "You're not going anywhere because I love you. Happy now?"

Under Sherlock's thin, but looming form, John froze. The taller man felt his body tense up with emotion beneath his hands.

After a pause, John looked up, staring straight at his partner. His face was carefully blank and free of emotion, but Sherlock could see past the lie. He could see the fury, hurt and pure despair. "No, Sherlock, I'm not happy. And you bloody well know why?"

John forced one of his smaller, but broader and more powerful hands free from Sherlock's grip, and ripped Sherlock's remaining hand off of his other wrist. He viciously shoved the taller male back, making him stumble backwards. "Because you only tell me that you love me if you want something, or if you want me to shut up." John's voice was strangled and emotional. "And I love you, Sherlock. More than anything. But I'm not caving in to your bullshit anymore." He spun around, and headed off for the door again determinedly. Sherlock, slightly taken aback by the sudden turn of events, stepped forward and reached out. Imploring him to listen, he spoke, "John, no! Stay."

Ignoring him, John wrenched the door open, still ignoring his coat.

"John, _please, stay!" _

_The door slammed shut behind the furious doctor, and Sherlock was left alone in his flat._

_He couldn't help but notice how hollow and cold his home seemed now. John's presence brought warmth into his life, but now, he was gone. Sherlock stared at the door, deep in thought for several seconds, before turning away. He looked up, slowly, and saw the polished bone of his skull resting on the fireplace._

_This was a problem. And it didn't seem that the skull would be of much assistance._


	4. Saviour

_NOTE: This can be seen as a sequal to Placebo, if you added in the fact John helped Sherlock despite the argument, but this isn't meant to be a second part. I'm planning for another chapter to be the part where John and Sherlock possibly resolve things. ;)_

These were the worst nights.

It was absolutely freezing out, and raining. Weathermen had correctly predicted the storm, but as they were usually wrong people had blatantly ignored them. The wind had picked up since the morning, and now wailed mercilessly, attacking all those who remained out in the early hours of the morning. Rain poured from the sky, drizzled from roof tops and pooled in the gutters. The rain could soak to the very bone, and the cold nigh air bit at bare skin. Those who had the wisdom to stay indoors enjoyed warmth, comfort and safety- something two men we knew very well didn't enjoy on a regular basis. Not anymore. Not since they met.

These men tried unsuccessfully to shelter themselves from the harsh weather as one dragged the other down the soaked street. The one being pulled along stumbled occasionally, he legs weak and buckling, but the shorter man refused to give up on him.

"Sherlock!" He was forced to yell over the rain, grabbing his injured companions hands. He gripped one, and wrapped an arm around his slim, skinny waist. In response, Sherlock gave a low grunt, his face twisted and contorted in what could have been pain- his friend wouldn't have known. He had seen and felt pain, more than enough of it, but he had never seen this unique, almost alien man in pain,

"John," Sherlock responded, but this voice was little more than a whisper. Instead of avoiding physical contact as he usually would, he squeezed John's hand and grabbed at his shoulder. "John." He echoed.

"Just a few more steps, it's not far now." He promised, gesturing his head toward their apartment. It was barely visible through the torrential rain. He continued tugging Sherlock down the road, but cautiously, not wanting to hurt him anyway than he already probably was. The sodden man followed willingly, but incredibly slowly.

Eventually, they reached the door- that street was too damn long, John swore- and Sherlock leant heavily on John as he fumbled for his keys. He was a dead weight, but John had experience in carrying and helping friends off the battle field. He managed to keep his friend upright, despite his surprise and fear at how weak the usually stronger man was, and he also managed to find his keys although it took him several attempts to jam his key into the lock. On his fourth go he managed it, and he hauled his friend inside.

John looked up, mentally assessing the stairs- how long will it take? Will Sherlock make it? Will he be okay?- and frowning. They weren't safe yet (he ignored the tiny voice in the back of his head that whispered that they would never be. He noted with a small shudder that this voice sounded disturbingly like Moriarty.) and not quite home, but at least it wasn't bloody raining on them anymore.

He felt movement on his shoulder- it was Sherlock trying to stand independently. He looked up, his skin deathly pale as usual, but his beautiful eyes were now dull and half lidded, and his once soft, dark hair now plastered to his face. He found the strength to stand alone, amazingly, and this time took some hesitant steps forward and up, trying to pull John along with him like a child. The doctor allowed himself to be tugged about, quietly marvelling at the detectives strong will and determination and occasionally tensing, ready to steady his lover if he faltered. As a small, skinny thing, Sherlock wasn't much of a fighter- although his legs were long and he could run bloody fast, leaving most enemies in the dust- but his lightning fast mind and sense of purpose pulled through the most challenging of physical situations.

John followed his partner up the stairs, trying to be considerate and quiet as he passed Mrs. Hudson's door, cursing his soaked and squeaking boots. Sherlock as usual didn't bother, more engrossed in getting up into his apartment, his landlady's rest be damned.

Eventually, they made their way up, and soon they stood inside their apartment. Sherlock automatically made a beeline for their old and worn sofa, almost falling into it and immediately curling up into a tiny ball, facing away from John. The doctor inwardly winced at the look of the uncomfortable position and his inner OCD shrieked at the very though of wet clothes and boots on the floor and arm chair, but he wisely said nothing. Instead, he made for the chair on the other side of the room, shredding his now torn up and ruined jacket and throwing himself down. His OCD curled up in a metaphorical corner and sobbed, but frankly he didn't care.

The two remained deathly silent for several long minuites, ignoring each other. John stared sluggishly at the TV whilst Sherlock made no sound whatsoever. He might have though that the younger man had fallen asleep, but the detective didn't sleep, and his back was far to tense for that. Ignoring the thoughts of the rather delightful things he could do to remove that tension, shaming himself for thinking of sex but knowing the adrenaline and danger just affected him like that, he was worried. He was used to silence, but Sherlock had barely utter a word since John rescued him from getting killed by a rather large gang. After they were forced to flee he sometimes uttered his lovers name, his tone strangely soft, but he wasn't his usual snappy and judgemental self. He had never been so quiet before.

John stared hard at Sherlock's back, deep in thought. His head ached, along with the rest of his unfortunate body. His right side in particular was on fire with agony, and he just knew his skin would be black and blue the next morning. He would have a hell of a job hiding them from Sarah, or Mrs Hudson. God have mercy on his should is they did notice. They were lovely women, but God they obsessed and nagged and worried over the slightest injury.

However, there was Sherlock to worry about. He was much worse off, with some bruises already developing and cuts which only stopped bleeding recently. This was all John saw on the detectives arms and face- he almost didn't want to know what his body looked like underneath his coat and suit.

Concern flooded the doctor, replacing his urges, and he decided to damn it all and speak up. He sat forward a little, wincing as pain shot up his side, and gently cleared his throat, as if not to starltle his lover.

"Sherlock," He began, his voice soft and quiet. Now he could easily speak over the rain and wind, which he noted still hadn't slowed or calmed since they arrived back.

There was no audible response, but John spotted a slight twitch. Sherlock's head had craned back minutely, just far enough for John to notice. The silence reigned, but John was at least thankful they had some communication. Relief joined the concern, and a tiny smile touched the mans lips.

"Sherlock." He repeated, his voice light and breathy this time. He realised he sounded an awful like the old romance novels both men detested, but again he didn't care. It took him several attempt to pull himself out of the chair, his legs whining with protest. Pain shot up his side again and he could distinctly feel the uncomfortable sensation of wet clothes peeling off his skin, but he ignored it. He walked, or limped across the room, avoiding several of Sherlock's floor bound experiments as he went, and slowly and carefully crouched beside him. He placed a hand on Sherlock's back, carefully avoiding any bruises. The detectives coat was sodden, along with the rest of him, and stone cold. "Are you alright?"

John was surprised, albeit somewhat pleasantly when Sherlock shifted, and his brighter silver eyes staring incredulously. His eyes weren't as alert and omniscient as usual, but annoyance and disbelief flickered through them. Sherlock gently rolled onto his back.

"Am I alright?" He countered, his voice still fairly weak. "Are you alright?" John gave a weary smile at his lovers determination, but ultimately chose not to reply. He remained silent, but leant over to brush his nose against Sherlock's.

The taller man narrowed his eyes and pulled his head out of John's reach. John growled quietly at the movement. It seemed cold Sherlock was back- the one who disliked being touched unless under intense circumstances. Sherlock curled in on himself, looking strangely indignant for how he was acting not five minutes ago. But that was Sherlock, John supposed. Capable of recovery and sarcasm within seconds.

John grunted quietly, decided to not take 'no' for an answer. He leant in harder, using his whole weight to hold him down. He ignored the awful stench of the damp, and oh so gently ran his lips across Sherlock's cheek and temple, being careful not to touch the small cut that lay in-between his path. His lover lay shock still for a moment, letting John touch him- but then he squirmed and feebly kicked like a foal, and the doctor let go of him immediately. He had what he wanted, after all.

Sherlock rolled carefully (John didn't know that was possible, to _roll carefully_, but his roommate was simply full of remarkable surprises.) off the sofa, only very narrowly missing colliding with John.

"I'm going to have a shower." He announced, half speaking to John and deciding out loud to himself, and the doctor winced. It was definite. Old, cruel Sherlock was back again. His moment of weakness had past, and it would _never_ be spoken of again.

Sherlock rose, wavering slightly, but he remained determined. John stood too, and sighed quietly. Some things, not matter what, never did change. He had plans to go out, to have a good time with old friends for the first time in God knows how long, but of course, Sherlock had intervened. He would admit, it actually wasn't his fault this time, but still. Mycroft had text him, with three little words which made him automatically spring into action, his plans be damned.

_Sherlock needs you._

He'd turned up, found Sherlock struggling against five brutes almost double his size, and without thinking, dashed in to save him.

Of course, this had got him in deep trouble himself, and they were forced to flee. They both had a fine collection of cuts, bruises, grazes, you name it, they had three of them. He had risked his life- and he hadn't even been thanked.

John resigned himself to his fate, however, and sighed once more. His plans were to simply fall into his bed and die, and see if Sherlock bothered to join him later, but his plans, for the second time today were thrown out the window when he felt hands on his shoulders grab him, and spin him about.

He had no time to be alarmed, barley any time to suck in a terrified breath before a hungry mouth descended on his. There was a moments pause in which John froze, shocked, but upon realising there was a wet body pressed against his, a very familiar, tall and slim body he almost melted into the kiss. Despite the ferocity, he could feel Sherlock gently petting his shoulders with gloved hands- his way of trying to comfort his lover, even though he was often humiliated about how _degrading _it was. John's own hands raised to Sherlock's head, feeling his wet hair under his bare hands and pulling him closer. He could feel the detectives body heat through his thin clothing, and he moaned quietly.

Moments later, they were forced to part, and Sherlock resurfaced, panting a little. He rested his forehead against Johns, his eyes closed. He gave a little groan.

"I hate it when you sigh like that, all disappointed." He pulled a face, and opened his eyes. His exhaustion was clear, but he managed a tiny, rare smile. He pressed another little kiss to John's lips, and the doctor could feel the exertion of energy was too much- Sherlock was slowly sagging, deflating on him. "I…meant to thank you. You know…" He pulled another face, trying to find an appropriate way to word his feelings. "My 'people skills' are …rusty."

John simply gave a breathy little laugh, full of relief and appreciation. He suddenly felt a hell of a lot happier than before. He ignored the protests of his body as Sherlock leant on him "Don't worry. This form of thanks is good enough for me." He looked down at the sagging detective. "Are you going to be alright to have a shower, or…?"

Sherlock made a small noise which sounded like a cats satisfied purr. "I might need some help." With what must have been the last of his energy- god knows how John was going to get him into bed in this state- he pulled himself up, and placed a last, teasing kiss onto the doctors lips before turning, and nearly sashaying away.

John watched, almost mesmerized, before realisation dawned. He jumped where he stood, a eager grin appearing on his face, and he darted after his lover.


	5. Gunpowder and Steel

**Hello! :D 'Tis Bonfire night! My coward of a dog is cowering at my feet as I write this! Here's hoping all you lot have a good night tonight :P **

**First things first, I would apologise about the delay, but I've apologized so many times now I'm sure it sounds completely insincere now…so I think you'll all get a massive "I'M SORRY PLEASE LOVE ME" note at the end of this series which is drawing ever closer…. *sad face* (although to be fair to myself, I have just started 6****th**** Form….)**

**This particular part is like an AU, my made up take on another way John and Sherlock could have met. I wrote this completely for the lulz. **

**And please stay tuned at the end, I have a relatively important note to make at the end… which includes you lot!**

A loud, sudden shriek of noise invaded the cool, brisk air of the night. Those who heard it winced inwardly, their ears assaulted by the screech. Their eyes turned to the sky, which rapidly had become clouded with deep, dark smoke, suffocating the once brilliant stars.

The city of London waited with bated breath as the terrible noise ended as quickly as it had been given life. A buzz of nothing, absolute silence replaced the noise, making the quiet near deafening. Time may as well have drifted to a stop, life and its complexities becoming trivial.

A doctor, outside, sitting alone at a abandoned bus shelter was one of the people who paused. He had been waiting, although he wasn't sure exactly what for. Two of his buses had already gone past, splashing up the water from puddles, it's passengers warm and safe inside the vehicle. He barely remembered how he got here, for the longest of moments he didn't even know where he was.

But back to the noise.

_Three, two, one…._

There was a mighty, violent bang, and it would have only _just _been a exaggeration if John Watson said the floor shuddered with the intensity of the explosion. However, he took comfort in this noise, having adjusted to the invasion over his many years of living in London. He knew he still had issues, the tremendous sound bringing back terrible memories of just a few days ago- hearing the screams and barked orders of his fellow soldiers, blazing light, scorching heat and pure noise working together to make him temporally stunned, blind and deaf. It was easy to lose oneself in your subconscious mind. He huffed to himself and absentmindedly tapped his cane on the paved floor.

He thinks maybe, in retrospect, he was reluctant. Somewhere, deep inside, he knew everything. He just didn't want to admit it. He'd only been back in London for a day, back from the war. He knew damn well he had no home of his own, nothing special, nothing unique, nothing simply _his._ But he was too fucking prideful to get on a damn bus to Harry's house and ask her for help.

He huffed to himself once again, his breath a heavy exhale. He wasn't really sure how long he'd been there for, and to be frank, he didn't care. A violent gust of wind blew past, lifting up the pages of old abandoned newspapers, pushing rubbish across the floor and sending a shiver down John's spine. Sometimes people wandered past, clutching umbrella's for the slight downpour with their collars turned up against the wind, all walking in the same direction.

"Bonfire night. Gotta love it." He thought, only half sarcastically. The constant shrieks and explosions were a little irritating after a while, especially the idiots who screamed like banshees at each bang. He also found dark, yet amusing humour in the very idea of Guy Fawkes night- were we celebrating the fact that Mr Fawkes failed, or the fact that he tried? John shook his head and smiled, the expression feeling worryingly alien on his face.

He eyed the sign above him intently - ten minutes until the next bus. "_Will he swallow his pride or won't he? Place your bets here!"- _He dropped his head, moving to stare at his shoes instead. He ignored the reflection of his face in a nearby puddle. His alert blue eyes drifted shut, almost in defeat. There was another huge bang, and a orchestra of terrible shrieks, but he ignored them too. A hand lifted to rub at his hair insistently as he thought.

He was seriously thinking about the direction his life was heading in, and wondering how the hell he was going to get through it all in one piece, when a girl's voice rang out through the night.

"_Let go of me you weirdo!"_

The voice was young. John maybe placed the girl as in her mid teens, maybe fourteen or fifteen. She sounded less scared, not like a terrified victim of some ne'er-do-well. She sounded more cross, rageful, maybe even insulted, he thought. She wasn't in sight, but she sounded close.

Watson automatically leapt up, his eyes searching for the girl wildly. He had to help. He was in enough frame of mind to stop himself from tossing his cane aside - "That would have been bloody stupid and incredibly useful, wouldn't it John?" He thought sarcastically- and running to her aid. He felt old and useless and he gripped his cane tight and hobbled as fast as he could towards where he thought he heard her voice, but he couldn't stand by and let her get hurt on account of him being _embarrassed._

He heard another shout, almost drowned by another howl of a firework. _"LET ME GO!"_

John automatically pin pointed her voice- down the alley way, not ten steps away. He tried to hurry himself, cursing his leg for the millionth time. It took him longer than a able bodied man, but he moved at an impressive speed and quickly rounded the corner and into the alley, every sense on hyper alert.

He saw the girl. She maybe could have been in her mid teens, like he guessed- but it was hard to tell through the adult clothing and the several layers of intense makeup. She looked like she'd been on her way to a party- and not the kiddie kind. She wore one of the strange skirts- triple layered, make from netting, and incredibly short and bright. She wore striped tights with rips in them, clearly made for fashion and not out of clumsiness. The heels on her shoes were killer, and he sympathised with her ankles. Her shirt was low cut and had a logo he didn't recognise on it- probably from a band or a tv show. Her hair was cropped short and messy, and chocolate brown. It had three stripes of colour in the fringe- neon green, robins egg blue and hot pink. She was one of those rebel kids, the one who defied authority and didn't care what anyone thought.

The man she was screeching at had a hand on her wrist, and was trying to tug her out of the alley. He didn't look happy. He was tall, and as dark as a shadow. His entire outfit was black- his expensive looking coat pulled tight around him, his scarf, the trousers of his suit. His hair was dark, and his skin so pale it was almost glowing. If John didn't know better, he would have said he was a concerned father or uncle trying to get a rebellious child to return home. But the possessive hand on her arm spoke differently.

Soon, John grew close enough to hear a loud, snarled conversation.

"To hell with you, dickhead!" She gave the man a sneer. She had spirit, John gave her credit for that, but she wasn't particularly intelligent. The male growled back.

"Don't be so childish," His voice was deep, and had a barely concealed note of fury. He tugged her along, towards John, half dragging, half carrying her.

The streets around the doctor were very nearly empty- people would have been at the firework show, with friends and family, celebrating with sparklers and glow toys. In the houses nearby, there were no lights in the windows. The dark was almost suffocating, lampposts only half illuminating the streets. No one else came to the angry, fighting girls aid. Just John.

"Hey!" He shouted down at them. The girl jumped, her eyes possibly widening (it was hard to tell through all the mascara). The man tuned slowly, his grip not loosening nor tightening on her skinny, twig like wrist. His expression was exasperated, maybe bored. It was almost as if he was used to being challenged, to being questioned.

"Yes?" He asked.

John came to a stop, a relatively safe distance away. Far enough to be safe if there were any sudden movements, such as the man pulling a knife, but close enough to react if there was a lapse in his concentration. The doctor glowered at him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Returning the girl to her worried family, of course." The stranger spoke casually, and as if he was pointing something out to a small child. John glared at him defensively. "It's true. I'm working for the girl's family, and the police. I'm a police consultant slash private detective, and they think this lovely lady here is holding drugs."

John scoffed, noting how the girl blanched in fear behind him. A smirk on the man's face told him he saw it, too. "The police don't consult amateurs."

The sly, amused smile on the man's face told him that was the wrong thing to say. The man's light grey eyes lit up with the promise of a challenge. He watched me, his gaze wholly analytical. There was a swift moments silence which probably would have gone on for longer, had yet another firework not sounded once more. Even the girl had stormed squirming- temporarily.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes." He said the name like John should have recognised it and been in awe. "I'm the world's only consultant detective. I'm not going to go into detail about what I do, because chances are you won't understand it. If you've got a probl-"

While Sherlock Holmes was distracted with answering John's question, the girl took the opportunity to pull her leg back and mule-kick him directly in the back of the knee.

He yelled something he probably shouldn't have said around a youth incredibly loudly, and he let her go. The girl immediately set off, running amazingly fast for someone wearing high heels like _that. _She sped out of the alley, shooting past John and almost bowling him over. He heard a another, louder curse from the consultant detective, and a metallic thud. Sherlock had kicked the bin in frustration.

"Brilliant. Two days it took me to find that girl! Two days! Anderson was loving it, I'm telling you, and I was so close to finally shutting him up, but no!" He ranted, viciously stomping on the floor. It reminded John of a child's tantrum after being denied a sweet or a much sought after toy. "Now I'll have to start all over again, and don't get me started on what I'm going to have to tell her parents-"

"I, ah," John stumbled over his words, not sure about how to react. "I'm sorry, I…" He wasn't sure why he was apologising, exactly. He was hardly in the wrong- he was trying to defend this girl. How was he supposed to know he was a detective? Plus, he hadn't even proved he was a detective. He sighed heavily. "If you move quick, you can find her."

Sherlock stopped kicking the floor, but his sour expression never changed. "It's not my job to chase stupid teenage girls around London."

"You're a detective, aren't you? Working for the girl's parents?"

"Weren't you listening?" A short temper flared once more. "Yes!"

"I was. But obviously it is your job to find this girl. So why don't you go and do it instead of whining?"

There was another moment of silence, in which Sherlock stared at John. He looked him up and down, staring as if he was only seeing him for the first time. The doctor almost wilted under the strong gaze, but forced himself to stand tall and firm. As he was surveyed, John looked back.

The man didn't look like the sort of man who appreciated doing a lot of running about. He was tall and lean and wiry, and strangely handsome. His eyes were a peculiar shade of grey- pure, like ash or slate. They were cold and unfeeling. He was unearthly pale. He probably worked outside during the night. He didn't look like the kind of man who liked being in crowds or liked smiling. The two locked gazes.

John didn't know how long they stared for- but he didn't like it. He had an unnerving feeling the man was learning something about him, staring directly into his eyes. He felt he was being duped, being taken advantage of. He broke the gaze, and reality seemed to come rushing back to him. He hadn't even realised anything had changed.

He heard a chuckle, and the click of shoes. He looked back up, careful to not look at Sherlock's face. He saw his shoes, black, shiny and spotless. John frowned, but said nothing. The detective stopped next to him, shoving his gloved hands into his coat pockets.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John's held jolted up, almost cracking his neck at the speed. "Excuse me?"

His response was a sly smile. "Your hair cut, the way you hold yourself, says military. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists- you've been abroad, in extreme weather, but not sunbathing. Not a holiday. You have a limp, and it's very bad when you walk- wounded in action, perhaps. Thus, Afghanistan or Iraq."

John very nearly took a step away from his companion, his eyes narrowed in suspicion and irritation. Anger was always a good substitute for surprise. It didn't let people know how rattled, how afraid you were. But looking at the entertained, smooth smirk on the taller man's face, he knew all too well, and found the failed attempt to hide funny. He took another step, oozing self confidence and amusement. He stepped out into the street, under the light of a nearby lamppost. He turned and offered John a grin, the shadow casting bizarre shapes on his angular face. His smile was stretched tight, his eyes bright and alert.

"Coming with me?"

John blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Sherlock's head tilted to one side. "Don't you have to check I am a detective, not some perverted kidnapper?"

John's lips twisted as he thought. He had a point. He wasn't one to meet strange, possibly criminal men in a alley way and to follow them onto a epic adventure…but he couldn't simply let him chase after this girl, who may or may not have been a victim. She hardly seemed a sweet, innocent young girl who young men preyed on, but there was always the possibility.

Time seemed to trickle by slowly as Sherlock Holms waited and John Watson thought.

"You don't even know my name." He eventually said. It was a weak argument, but it would have had to do. Sherlock rolled those beautiful, liquid steel eyes.

"Then what is your name?"

"I'm…" John's mouth went dry, and he forced himself to swallow. He cleared his throat, and shook his head, as if trying to knock some prying thought out of his mind. "My name is John Watson."

"Are you coming with me, John Watson?" He pried, his voice turning impatient. "I do have a girl to find, after all."

Things were moving alarming fast, at a pace the war doctor didn't like at all. But he felt compelled by a 'duty' and need to either help him, or the rebellious child. After another pause, a similar but tiny smile spread across his own face. He stepped forward to stand beside the alleged detective (albeit hesitantly) and couldn't stop a overwhelming feeling of sheer _rightness, _almost completion overtaking him. Sherlock turned, and immediately strode off- fast enough to take the lead, but slow enough for John to just about keep up.

As he followed dutifully, his attention was temporarily diverted by the bus shelter. It was still abandoned, cold and lonely. He wasn't sure if he had missed the bus, or maybe he still had time. He could always just go to Harry. It would be easier, less weird, less random. And she would be happy to see him. She gave her his phone in a attempt to keep in contact with him, he wasn't stupid. But it was a matter of whether or not he wanted to see her.

These thoughts flickered through his mind within seconds, and he didn't even pause. He turned away from the shelter, still following his new companion, and smiled.

"So what else can you tell about me, Mr Holmes?"

He grinned. "Call me Sherlock, please."

"John."

Baby blues opened slowly, lazily as the doctor grunted in response. He lay back on the sofa, quite comfortable and warm. He was stretched out, fully content and happy. A quivering bundle lay on his lap, and John chuckled, placing a hand on the bundle's head. The dog trembled and drooled, but he didn't mind. He rubbed the creature's ears comfortingly, feeling the soft, short fur under his fingers.

"Don't worry, Gladstone." He muttered reassuringly. "It's just a few fireworks, they'll be over soon."

"I do hope you're not planning on keeping that thing where it can moult and dribble all over the chair." He heard Sherlock mutter, sounding vehemently unhappy. John laughed.

There was a chorus of loud pops and crackles from outside, and the sound of cheering. Gladstone whined, his paws scrabbling at John's thigh. He looked up at his master with huge, teary eyes as the fireworks exploded. John sympathised. The firework gave him a bit of a headache, and human hearing was nothing compared to a dogs.

"Is he still complaining?" Sherlock's voice was distasteful, and suddenly a hell of a lot closer than he once was. John turned to find Sherlock standing directly next to him, his face level with the detectives stomach. He grinned as the detective crouched , leaning his cheek onto the arm of the sofa. His intelligent eyes were staring into Gladstone's, annoyed and yet curious.

"Yeah." John petted the bull dog's fur, serenely and calmly. "He doesn't like them."

"He's acting pathetic." The detective said dismissively. John snorted.

"So he's not acting like you every time you see a clown?" He teased, and immediately received the cold shoulder. Sherlock's back straightened and he glowered at his lover, his eyes cold with rage. He went to stand, opening his mouth to argue back the same things John had heard millions of times before- you can't see a clowns face, you can't gauge the true emotion, I'm guessing you've never read Stephen King's It- but John gently grasped a fistful of Sherlock's dressing gown, and pulled him back down to his level. "I'm sorry, I was just joking." He smiled back, trying not to laugh at the hissy look on Sherlock's face.

"Damn right you should be sorry." Sherlock said sulkily, but he still leant in closer until John could feel his warm breath on his cheek. Sherlock kissed his smiling partner, letting him know he was forgiven, even temporarily. Sherlock's hand cupped the back of John's head, pulling him closer. He tasted peppermint, from gum John had chewed earlier, and something smothered beneath the strong, overpowering taste. It was warm, slightly sour, but Sherlock loved it. It was something pure, unmistakably _John._

There was a smile against his thin lips, and John eagerly kissed back, deepening the kiss his lover instigated. Sherlock was surprisingly physical and affectionate- once you knew him well enough of course. Their lips melded together, as if they were trying to absorb each other.

The two would have loved for it to continue, the urge to do more and to do _other _things revealing themselves, but intense, ground breaking explosion from outside and a low whimper from Gladstone reminded the two of where they were. John pulled away, making a apologetic noise. Sherlock growled, but relented. He watched the war doctor coo over his pet- some times that damn hound got more love than he did- quietly. The dog eventually settled down, his paws unsteady as he tried to get in a more comfortable position on John's lap.

Sherlock twisted himself, so he could half lay on the sofa as he sat comfortably on the living room floor. He rested his head on John's chest, feeling the warm wool of the cyan coloured jumper on his ear. John raised the hand that didn't rest on Gladstone's head, and petted Sherlock's mess of dark curls sweetly. Sherlock purred like a kitten at the feeling, enjoying the sound of his lover's even heartbeat and light breathing.

"You know we met today, on Bonfire night, two years ago." John smiled, bending down a little to kiss his forehead. Sherlock gave a happy, satisfied murmur, and closed his eyes.

"I know." He said quietly. "I'm glad you followed me."

"So am I. I would have been bloody bored if I didn't." The two snickered silently together. Gladstone still shivered in his lap. Sherlock pulled a face at being so close to the animal he pretended to detest, but said nothing. "Love you, Sherlock."

"I love you too."

The two sat together, listening to the calming music John had put on for his pet and the shriek and bang of fireworks outside. They said nothing for hours afterward, but they didn't need to. The two mutually understood each other, and there was nothing left to be said.

**Okay, time for the vaguely important note. This series is almost coming to an end (I believe I have one more part to write, in which John kisses Sherlock) and it makes me sad! I've had fun despite the epic stress, so I may continue writing short Sherlock prompts, but ****not**** under this stories title. I'm telling you this so if anyone has any particular requests you want to make of me I will be more than happy to attempt them (key word = attempt XD). If you want, you're more than welcome to either review or PM me to tell me your request.**

**I hope you enjoyed this part, and I'll be seeing you when I finish the next part! ;D**


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